When she turned around, Elijah was walking toward her.

“What’s going on?”

“Navy Newcomb is dead.”

“What happened?”

“Daniel—I mean the chief—wouldn’t tell me. All I know is that [...]]]> Ginger stood there watching as Chief Foenapper rushed out of Coreyville Coffee Cakes, jumped into his car, turned on his flashing light, and sped away.

When she turned around, Elijah was walking toward her.

“What’s going on?”

“Navy Newcomb is dead.”

“What happened?”

“Daniel—I mean the chief—wouldn’t tell me. All I know is that he took my cakes out to the nursing home and now he’s dead. I want to go out there.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Thanks.” She walked over to Cheryl Iper, at the cash register. “I’ll be back in a little while.” Ginger walked away before Cheryl had a chance to ask any questions.

Elijah had parked halfway down the block. In the early morning hours, Ginger’s customers took up more than her store’s share of parallel parking slots. But most of the other shops were not open that early anyway.

Elijah’s old Ford sedan was roomy and comfortable. Pastors of small congregations learn how to live on meager salaries. One of the ways Elijah stretched his income was to buy his cars at auctions. This particular one had been a police cruiser in its previous life.

There was no way to know how many times the engine had been revved up for a high-speed chase. Or how many perps had ridden handcuffed in the back seat. None of that mattered to Elijah. After a thorough cleaning and a new paint job, he considered the vehicle ‘born again.’

They got in and Elijah backed out and drove toward the nursing home.

“I hope this isn’t my fault,” said Ginger, more to herself than to Elijah.

“What do you mean? How could it be your fault?”

“I think Navy stole my recipe book this morning.”

Elijah looked puzzled.

“What if somebody knew he was going to steal it? They might have tried to take it away from him. Maybe they fought, and—”

“—just how much is this recipe book worth?”

“Some other bakery might be willing to pay thousands for it. I don’t know. We get business from all over the area.” People travelling down Interstate 20 often made a detour through Coreyville just to get some of Ginger’s famous cakes.

“Okay. I can understand how valuable the book is. But I can’t believe people would kill for it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

When they arrived at Coreyville Country Home, Ginger asked Elijah to drive around to the back. They saw the chief talking to Justice of the Peace Harvey ‘Boot’ Hornamer. Two paramedics were loading a body into the ambulance in no particular hurry.

Ginger and Elijah got out of the car and walked up behind the chief just in time to hear the end of the conversation.

At 77, Boot was a product of his long-term habits. Sixty years of chewing tobacco had created a permanent protrusion in his left cheek. And these days, it never went away—whether the wad of chew was there or not. His love of the sun had turned his arms more leathery than his cowhide belt. The excruciating pain in his feet and back was exasperated by the cowboy boots. But he just wouldn’t be ‘Boot’ without them.

“So, I’m gonna order an autopsy.” Boot turned to the side and spit. The bullet stream of tobacco juice nailed a bullfrog right between the eyes.

“Okay,” said the young chief.

Boot walked over to his pickup and climbed in.

“Chief?” said Ginger.

He turned around.

“Y’all don’t have any idea what killed him?”

“I can’t discuss the case.”

“Why?”

Elijah jumped in. “So, you think it was murder?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, what are you saying?” Ginger was getting annoyed.

“I’m not saying anything.”

Ginger noticed a woman standing near the back door of the building. Judging by the white outfit and apron, she figured the woman to be a cook. Perhaps she had seen or heard something. She would talk to her after she finished with the chief.

“Have you contacted his family?” said Elijah.

“I’m about to drive out to his mother’s house,” said the chief.

“What about his girlfriend?” said Ginger.

“I’ll go talk to her,” said Elijah.

“Thanks.” The chief walked to his car, got in, and drove away.

Two deputies watched as a tow truck drove away with Navy’s Corvette. Then they got into their car and left.

Ginger looked over at the building. The cook had apparently gone back inside.

“I’ll bet somebody in there saw what happened.” She began walking up the sidewalk, toward the kitchen door.

Elijah followed her.

Ginger knocked.

One of the cooks opened the door. It was the woman Ginger had seen standing outside.

“Yes?”

“Could we come in for a minute? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The woman hesitated.

“I’m Ginger Lightley.” She smiled and held out her hand.

The woman’s apprehension was suddenly gone. “Oh, Mrs. Lightley. I’m so happy to meet you.” She shook Ginger’s hand. “Your cakes are amazing. I’m a big fan.”

Ginger knew that people loved her coffee cakes, but she didn’t know she had fans.

The woman became even more excited. “Oh, would you mind tasting one of my cherry tarts. It’s my own recipe.” She rushed to the stove to get one.

Ginger looked at Elijah and shrugged. Then she saw her coffee cakes sitting on the counter. One of her trays was sitting beside them.

The woman came back with a tart and handed it to Ginger.

Ginger took a sniff and nodded. Then she bit off a small portion and chewed it carefully as she analyzed it with her tongue. She was like a professional wine taster—except for the spitting.

“I love the delicate flakiness. The cherries are almost too sweet—but they’re not. Ooh. And there’s a magnificent aftertaste. How did you do that?”

The woman grinned. “It’s a secret.”

“Well, of course it is,” said Ginger. “And don’t you tell a soul.”

“I won’t. Thanks, Ma’am.”

“You’re very welcome.” She handed Elijah what was left of the tart. “Try it. You’ll love it.”

Without waiting for Elijah’s verdict, Ginger turned back to the woman. “Are those the coffee cakes Navy delivered this morning?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Were you the one who let him in?”

“Yes. And he seemed fine. Then I got him to taste one of my cherry tarts and he started choking.”

Ginger glanced back at Elijah, who had just put the last bite of the tart into his mouth. He stopped chewing, and seemed to be wondering whether he should spit it out. But he was not choking.

“So, do you think the tart made him sick?”

“No,” said the woman. “I mean—I hope not. Oh, God. What do you think?”

“I doubt it.” She looked back at Elijah, who had finished his tart.

“I feel fine,” he said.

“Maybe it was the way he ate it,” said the woman. “He stuffed it in his mouth all at once.”

“That could be it,” said Ginger. “So, he started choking and then he just passed out?”

“No, Ma’am. I ran to get him a glass of water. But by the time I got back he had gone out the door. I went out to see if he was okay. He was in his car doing something. Then he got out and started walking back toward the building. So, I ran out to meet him. But before I could get to him, he fell down. I checked his pulse, but I couldn’t feel anything.”

“Then you called 9-1-1?”

“Yes. And I got one of our nurses to come out. She said he was already dead.”

Elijah said, “What do you think he was doing in his car? Was he looking for something?”

“He must have been. While I was waiting for the ambulance I went over and looked in the car. The glove compartment was open and everything had been pulled out and thrown on the floorboard.”

“Did he have anything in his hands when he got back out of the car?”

“No. So, I guess he couldn’t find whatever he was looking for.”

“Did you hear anything the justice of the peace and the chief were saying?” said Ginger.

“Yes. The justice of the peace said that he thinks Navy’s head hitting the sidewalk is what killed him. His head was bleeding. But he didn’t want to say for sure since Navy had been choking right before that.”

“So, they questioned you,” said Elijah.

“Yes.”

“Did they say anything else?” said Ginger.

“That’s about it, I think.”

Ginger looked at Elijah. He didn’t seem to have any other questions. “Okay, then. Thanks. We appreciate it.”

Ginger and Elijah walked to the door and started to step out.

“Oh,” said the woman. “There was one other thing. I don’t know whether it’s important or not though.”

“What?” said Ginger.

“When the deputies were searching his car they found something under the front seat. They were joking around about it until the chief yelled at them.”

“Did you see it?”

“Yes. It was a pair of panties.”

Ginger was not at all surprised. Navy was known to be a swinging bachelor. Although she thought he had finally settled down. “Wonder why the deputies thought it was funny?”

“Probably because they were that kind that lace up on the sides. You know—kinda sexy. And they had lettering across the front of them.”

“What did it say?”

“Unlace Me.”

Ginger suddenly felt ill. She knew who the panties belonged to.

END OF EXCERPT

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Ginger was still in deep thought, trying to come to terms with the fact that either Lacey or Navy had stolen her recipe book. “Oh. He’s a little early this morning.”

She went out to the dining area and spotted him [...]]]> Lacey stuck her head in the kitchen and said, “Brother Bideman is here.”

Ginger was still in deep thought, trying to come to terms with the fact that either Lacey or Navy had stolen her recipe book. “Oh. He’s a little early this morning.”

She went out to the dining area and spotted him sitting at their usual table. All the locals knew better than to take the table in the back corner. She and the reverend had their morning coffee together at that table every day—except on Sundays, of course.

Coreyville Coffee Cakes was closed on the Sabbath. But Ginger still got to see him. Elijah Bideman was the pastor of Corey Acres Baptist Church. On any given Sunday, she could be found in her favorite pew, listening to Elijah’s sermon.

There were whisperings around town that Ginger and the good reverend were much more than just friends. After all, Ginger’s husband, Lester, had died two years earlier, and Elijah’s wife had left him four years ago. Many folks figured it was about time the two admitted they were in love.

But Ginger was not in love with Elijah. She would not allow herself to fall in love again. Lester had been her one true love. There could never be another. That’s the way it was meant to be.

She picked up two ceramic coffee cups and filled them. Elijah took his coffee black, and so did she.

He was scanning the front page of the local newspaper, The Coreyville Courier. The Saturday edition was so thin and lightweight that paperboys had to worry about it blowing right out of a customer’s yard.

The Sweet Ginger Cake sitting in front of him had not been touched. He knew his breakfast partner would be arriving at any moment.

“Would you like some coffee to go with that cake, Sir?”

He looked at Ginger and smiled broadly. A salesman could only wish to have such a smile. His dimples alone could make a woman dizzy. “Why, yes, I would, Ma’am.” He folded the newspaper and set it on the back edge of the table, against the wall.

Ginger placed the two cups on the small table and sat down across from him. “Got your sermon all ready to go?”

Elijah was notorious for waiting until the last minute.

“I’m close.”

“What’s the subject?”

“Uh…I’d rather not say. Let it be a surprise.”

“You don’t even know, do you?”

“Sure I do. I mean—I’ve got it down to three possibilities.”

Ginger shook her head. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“But I do it. That’s the important thing. I always get it done.”

“Yes, you do. And your sermons are always great. Inspiring.”

“Thanks.”

“I guess it really doesn’t matter that you’re the world’s worst procrastinator.”

“No, Ginger. I’m the world’s greatest procrastinator.”

She smiled. “Well, I guess it just depends on how you look at it.”

“That’s right. I’m a cup-half-full kind of guy.”

“Well, right now you’re a cup-getting-cold kind of guy.”

Elijah looked down at this coffee cup. “Not at all.” He picked it up and took a sip.

Ginger watched him as she sipped from hers. She always loved watching him—even when he was doing something as mundane as drinking coffee.

“Ginger, I’d like to bounce something off you, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“It’s about the parsonage. It’s been a wonderful place to live all these years. And I appreciate the church providing it for me, of course. But…”

“What?”

“Well, I’m 63 years old, and—“

“—you’re not thinking about retiring.” Ginger couldn’t bear the thought.

“No. It’s not that. I mean, sure, I’ll retire someday. But not anytime soon.”

“Good.”

“But I need my own place. The parsonage belongs to the church. When I retire I’ll have to move out. Then where am I going to live? In a retirement home?”

“I don’t know.” Thirty-two years ago, Ginger had been on the church committee that recommended the house to be purchased by the church and used as a parsonage. Usually, a pastor would stay a few years and then move on. She had never considered what would happen if a pastor retired from the church.

“I’m thankful for what the church has done—giving me a place to live, at no charge. But I need a home of my own.”

“So, what are you thinking?”

“Well, I’ve managed to save a little money over the years. And I found a spot just outside of town.”

“John Wilson’s old place?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“But that house is eaten up with termites. It needs to be torn down.”

“I know. The house is no good. But I’d buy the land now. Then I’d save up for materials and build my own house.”

“With your own hands? You’re not a carpenter.” She took his hands and turned them over to the palms. They were as smooth as a newborn baby. “You’re hands would be bleeding in less than an hour. Have you ever even used a hammer?”

“Not lately. But I know I can do this.”

She could see the hope in his eyes. “Well, maybe if you had help from some of the men.”

“No, no. I’m not going to beg church members to build my house.”

“You wouldn’t have to beg. I’m sure they’d be glad to do it.”

“No.” He looked into her eyes. “Promise me you won’t tell anybody about this.”

“Well, I don’t see what harm it would—”

“—Ginger. Promise you won’t say anything to anybody.”

“Okay, fine.”

“Thank you.”

“But I hope you change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

They sipped their coffee in silence for a few seconds.

Ginger pointed to the newspaper. The headline read, King of the Kassle. Kipford Houston Kassle had recently been elected mayor of Coreyville. “What do you think about our new mayor?”

“I think he’s…awfully young.”

“Twenty-seven, I believe. The kids used to call him ‘Kippy.’”

“Oh, yeah. I remember that.”

“Well, he doesn’t like that anymore. Not since he graduated from that Ivy League business school. Now he’s “’K. Houston Kassle,’ or simply ‘Mayor Kassle.’”

“I’m sure he’ll do a fine job.”

“Really? Why? Because of his brand new MBA? Or because of his wealthy family? I can’t think of any other qualifications.”

“He’s bright.”

“I suppose.”

“Well, he was smart enough to earn a master’s degree and to get himself elected.”

“Or rich enough. But the first thing he did was to get his good buddy appointed as chief of police. And you know that Daniel Foenapper was not the most qualified candidate.”

“Probably not.”

The bell on the front door jingled as someone walked in.

Elijah looked to see who it was.

“Speak of the devil…”

“Our new chief of police?”

“Yep.”

Ginger sighed. “I guess I might as well get used to it. Excuse me.”

She got up and walked over to Daniel Foenapper, who was now standing in line. Daniel was only five-foot-nine, but his thin frame made him look taller. He was quite impressive in his new uniform.

“Good morning, Chief.”

He seemed surprised, yet pleased that she had addressed him in the proper manner. “Good morning, Mrs. Lightley.” His voice cracked, sounding exactly like it did in junior high.

No, please call me ‘Ginger.’ She thought it, but couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“Drop by anytime, Chief. It’s ‘on the house.’”

“No, Ma’am. I couldn’t do that—accept gifts, that is. It wouldn’t be right. I’ll pay—just like everybody else.”

Okay. Maybe he’s not so bad, she thought. “Suit yourself. But do come by often.”

He grinned. “I will. Your cakes are delicious.”

“Thanks. Well, have a nice day.”

Ginger stepped away, and was about to go back to Elijah when she heard the phone behind the counter begin to ring. She saw Lacey answer it. Ginger waited to see if the call was for her.

Lacey talked for a few seconds and then took the phone away from her ear and began to survey the dining area. She looked at Ginger and pointed to the chief.

Ginger went back over to where he was standing. “Looks like we have a phone call for you, Chief.”

“Really?” Daniel looked down at his police radio. He had forgotten to turn it on.

Ginger led him to the phone and Lacey handed it to him.

“This is Chief Foenapper…yeah, I forgot to turn it on. Sorry about that…I see…okay, I’m on my way.” He hung up the phone.

Ginger deliberately blocked his path. “Something wrong?”

“Yes. It’s Navy Newcomb.”

“What kind of trouble did he get into this time?”

“Did you send him out to the nursing home?”

“Yes. Well, no—I didn’t send him. He’s been volunteering—taking cakes out there every morning.”

“That’s it? He just picks up some cakes and delivers them to the nursing home?”

“Yes. The three-day-old cakes.”

He seemed disappointed.

“They’re still good. They’re perfectly good. I don’t give them stale cakes.”

“I see.”

“So, what did Navy do? You understand that he’s not an employee. He just volunteers.”

“I understand.” He tried to walk around Ginger, but she blocked him again.

“So, what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that Navy Newcomb…is dead.”

The old [...]]]> Ginger Lightley walked out her front door at precisely 7:30 a.m. The chilly January breeze was stronger than usual this morning. She flipped up the collar of her wool coat and pulled the knit cap down over her ears. She enjoyed the four-block stroll to her little bakery on town square.

The old city hall sat in the middle of the inner square. The four-story red brick building and its east and west parking lots covered two city blocks.

A variety of attractive old shops occupied the outer square. The most popular destination was Coreyville Coffee Cakes. Ginger was the proud owner and creator of recipes.

Sometimes she missed the old days, when she used to fire up the ovens at 6:00 a.m., mix the ingredients, and bake dozens of cakes, alongside her dear friend and hard worker, Addie Barneswaller. Nowadays Ginger had several employees. Her only job was to create a new recipe each month.

Coreyville Coffee Cakes would not have been a success without Addie. She was black, six-foot-two, and weighed around 190 pounds—every ounce of it muscle. She looked more like a pro basketball player than a 61-year-old cake baker. Ginger had a hard time believing that they were the same age.

One time Ginger demanded to see Addie’s birth certificate. She just laughed it off as a nice compliment. Addie had eight siblings. That was a lot of kids for her parents to keep up with. Ginger wondered if the parents had lost track of some of their ages.

She would never forget the day they met. Addie had just started working in the cafeteria at the elementary school where Ginger was teaching second grade. That was twenty-nine years ago—right before the bakery opened.

The first week of school, Ginger was escorting her class through the lunch line when one of the boys looked up at Addie and made an ugly remark about the chicken fried steak. Some of the other children started laughing. Addie slowly leaned over the counter and peered directly into the boy’s eyes with such intensity that Ginger half expected the kid to burst into flames.

Ginger considered intervening to save the boy, but the little brat had been driving her up the wall all morning. So, she hesitated. Then she saw the puddle which was beginning to form on the floor, between the boy’s shoes.

Addie told Ginger later that she felt bad about what happened. But from then on, the children knew better than to smart off to the big scary cafeteria lady.

That afternoon Ginger overheard a boy warning his friends. “Don’t say anything to her. Don’t even look at her. ‘Cause if she gives you the evil eye, you’re gonna wet your pants.” His buddies began to laugh. But the boy was insistent. “I’m not kidding. That’s what she did to Billy Jones. He wet his pants and started crying—right in front of the whole class.” The other boys suddenly quit laughing. The fear spread like a virus throughout the school. And that’s how Addie became a legend.

Ginger opened the door, anticipating the glorious aroma of freshly baked coffee cakes and perked coffee. There was nothing quite like that first whiff in the morning.

And there it was. It seemed even more intoxicating than usual.

All they had to do was get people into the shop. Once inside, it was nearly impossible for them to walk away without making a purchase. It wasn’t fair, really. Ginger almost felt like a drug dealer.

By the time the shop opened at 7:30, Addie and her new assistant, Lacey Greendale, had already baked dozens of the little cakes.

Ginger’s husband, Lester, God rest his soul, had never cared much for cakes. They were too sweet—especially the ones with icing. But then, as his 30th birthday approached, she had made up her mind to create a cake he’d love. She started with a basic coffee cake recipe and then tried to improve on it.

After throwing away several nine-inch round failures, she came up with the idea of mini-cakes. She ordered a special mini-loaf pan that was actually a set of six 4½-inch by 2½-inch individual pans connected by rods. It worked out great, allowing her to test six recipes at once.

Finally, after eighteen tries, Ginger had a masterpiece. She named it Sweet Ginger Cake. How could Lester resist a cake with that name? She wanted it to be a surprise. But what if he hated it—in front of all their friends? She decided to let him sample it early. He could still pretend that it was a surprise.

She held her breath as he took that first bite. To her, the cake was perfect. But she was still nervous about what he’d think. She couldn’t tell at first. He appeared to be trying to determine each and every ingredient. “Well?”

“Amazing,” he replied. “How did you do it?”

And that was how it all started. Ginger never had any formal training as a baker. Her only tools were a keen sense of taste and smell. She just kept experimenting until she got it right. That’s how she created all of her original recipes.

She closed the door behind her. There was already a line at the counter. Cheryl Iper was hurriedly accepting cash, checks, and credit cards. At the time they opened, most of the customers were on the way to work. Cheryl was doing her best to get them in and out as quickly as possible.

Ginger had never known anybody who could, at the same time, be so frantic yet cheerful, while spouting one-liners so fast that you’d never guess she was a native East Texan.

“Good morning, Cheryl.”

“Morning, Ginger.”

Ginger walked around behind the counter and leaned in close to Cheryl. “Where’s Danny?”

Cheryl blushed. Danny was her twenty-one year old son. “He overslept. I’m sorry, Ginger. But don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control. I can manage until he gets here. And, of course, I’ll dock his pay.”

“That’s fine. I know you can handle it.” Ginger would have offered to pitch in, but she knew that would only make Cheryl feel more guilty about Danny being late.

Ginger walked over to the reduced price rack. Obviously, Navy Newcomb had already come by to pick up the three-day-old cakes for the nursing home.

She gave a twenty-five percent discount on day-old cakes, and a fifty-percent discount on two-day olds. Even after three days, the cakes were still perfectly good, but she couldn’t bring herself to reduce the price further, so she just gave them away to the Coreyville Country Home. The cafeteria would cut them into slices to serve with lunch. The residents loved them.

Ginger walked into the kitchen. “Good morning, Addie. How’s it going?”

Addie was busy removing freshly baked cakes from their pans. She stopped and turned around. “Good morning. It’s going fine.”

As usual, Addie had smudges of flour all over her. Ginger nearly giggled when she noticed the perfectly round white circle on each of Addie’s dark cheeks. It looked like the work of a powder puff in the hands of a color-blind Avon lady.

“How many three-day-olds went out today?”

She thought for a moment. “About twenty.”

“Where’s Lacey?”

“She went out for a smoke break. Second one this morning.”

Ginger shook her head. Lacey Greendale was a beautiful five-foot-ten twenty-one year old with blue eyes and long dark hair. Her ivory skin was silky smooth. She was a sweet young lady, but very naïve. And you could break her heart by just looking at her with disappointed eyes.

Lacey opened the back door and walked into the kitchen. “Good morning, Mrs. Lightley.”

“Please—call me ‘Ginger.’”

“Yes, Ma’am. I’m sorry.”

She walked over and put her arm around Lacey, who towered over her. Ginger looked up at her and pointed to her own mouth. “Reason Five to stop smoking?”

Lacey cover her mouth with her hand. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t worry about me. But what about boys? I mean, men?”

“Well—“

“—I know. If the guy’s a smoker, he doesn’t even smell it on you. But do you really want to get involved with a smoker? First thing you know, you’ll marry him and start having kids. And then your kids will have to live in all that smoke. Surely you don’t want that.”

Lacey was embarrassed. “Oh, no. Of course not.”

“Good.” Ginger released her and smiled at her. She was proud of Lacey. She was beginning to take her little speeches to heart. “Okay. Danny’s running late, so you’d better go out front and help Cheryl until he gets here.”

Lacey seemed slightly annoyed. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Ginger was surprised by her attitude. Lacey usually did whatever she was told with a smile.

After she walked out, Ginger turned to Addie. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know. She’s been acting kinda funny this morning.”

“I’ll talk to her later.”

Addie noticed something on the counter. “Uh-oh.”

“What is it?” Please don’t let it be a roach.

“The recipe book. It’s gone.”

“Was it there this morning when you came in?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure, Addie?”

“Yes. I always check. It was definitely sitting right there.”

“So, you think Lacey took it?”

“Had to be her.”

“No, I can’t believe she would steal from me.”

“It’s worth thousands of dollars.”

Ginger shook her head. “I guess I shouldn’t have tempted her.”

“Why are you going easy on her? Nobody else who’s ever worked here has stolen it. And don’t you think they were tempted?”

“I guess so. But now I wish I’d never started leaving it out like that. Are you absolutely sure that it couldn’t have been somebody else?”

“Like who?” Then Addie’s expression changed in a flash.

“What?”

“Navy. He waited here in the kitchen while I went out front to make sure Lacey had picked up all the three-day-olds.”

“Where was Lacey?”

“She went out back for a smoke break right when he came in. I asked her to check out front for me before she took her break, but she ignored me and went out anyway. So, I had to do it myself.”

“So, Navy could have grabbed the recipe book while he was in here alone.”

“He could have. It was either him or Lacey. One of them stole it.”

Ginger knew that Navy Newcomb had blown his trust fund, and that he was flat broke. The whole town knew it. But she didn’t think he would stoop this low.

And if he did steal it, who would he sell it to?

“Here it is.” Navy threw it on the desk. “Now give me my money.”

“I don’t have it right now.”

Navy’s headache began to pound. It was only 7:15 a.m., but his brain cells were already screaming for caffeine. His eyes grew [...]]]> Book One of the Ginger Lightley Short-Novel Mystery Series
(Four-chapter excerpt)

“Here it is.” Navy threw it on the desk. “Now give me my money.”

“I don’t have it right now.”

Navy’s headache began to pound. It was only 7:15 a.m., but his brain cells were already screaming for caffeine. His eyes grew unnaturally large as his hands morphed into fists.

“Look, five thousand is a lot of money.”

“If you couldn’t pay it, you shouldn’t have promised it. That was the deal. And I’m gonna get my money one way or another—even if I have to beat it out of you.”

“No, no. Look, I didn’t know when you’d come. I don’t keep that much cash on hand. I’ll have to go to the bank. Come back at ten.”

“You better not be lying to me,” he said, beginning to grit his teeth.

“I’ll have the money for you at ten.”

Navy turned and stormed toward the door.

“Whoa. Settle down. How about a cup of coffee for the road?”

Navy stopped at the door and looked back. It would save him a trip to McDonalds. “Sure.” He took a deep breath. The money would not solve all his problems. But at least he wouldn’t lose his car. And he could take Kayla out for an expensive dinner tonight.

“Here you go. You need cream or sugar?”

“No.” Navy grabbed the Styrofoam cup. “See you at ten.” He walked out.

The alley was pitch black. How fortunate that the overhead light was burned out. He stood for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Gradually the black Corvette began to materialize in the faint moonlight. He made his way around to the driver’s side and got in. Sunrise would come at any moment. He started the engine and carefully eased up on the clutch. The powerful automobile crept slowly through the alley.

Navy held his breath as he pulled onto the road. He looked around. No witnesses. He turned on his headlights.

Coreyville Country Home was two miles north of town. He hated the place. The name implied a peaceful setting with fresh air, colorful butterflies and shady trees. And it did have all those things—much like a cemetery. It was really just a place you go to die.

Navy Newcomb was born into money. Big money. Not that his mother had ever shared much of it with him. She had paid him to do well in high school. He’d never amount to anything, she always said, unless he got a good education. After graduating near the top of his class, he had no problem getting admission to The University of Texas.

But the summer after his freshman year he overheard his mother talking to the family lawyer. There was a trust fund waiting for him to turn twenty-one. His father had set it up before he was born. So, his sophomore year was all about partying. What was the point of a college degree anyway? Navy would never have to work.

After flunking out of college and goofing off for a couple more years, he turned twenty-one and took possession of his two million dollars. He had been disappointed that it wasn’t more.

That was nearly four years ago, before the sports cars, boats, hookers, gambling, and drugs. All he had left was the Corvette. And it was the only thing that made him feel cool. And even that wasn’t really his. Not until he paid off the bank.

But things were looking up. Now he’d have the money to pay off the loan. And sooner or later his mother would start to believe that he had changed. This volunteer work would convince the crazy old woman to give him more money so he could rebuild his life.

It was a little creepy though. Taking over the delivery job. The old man had been doing it for a couple of years. Then one morning as he was dropping off a tray of coffee cakes, he had a stroke. Right there in the kitchen. They rushed him to the hospital. A week later he was back at the nursing home—as a resident.

Navy took a sip of his coffee. Then he reached for one of the small coffee cakes on the tray that was sitting in the passenger seat. It was a Sweet Ginger Cake—his favorite. There was only one today. He unwrapped it and wolfed it down in ten seconds. Delicious. He wished the cakes were normal size rather than personal sized, as they called them. On the other hand, somebody might notice if a regular size cake went missing.

When he arrived at the nursing home, he drove around back to the kitchen entrance and got out with the tray.

He rang the bell, and one of the cooks let him in. She took the tray from Navy and began to move the little cakes from the tray to the counter. “You ate some of them didn’t you?”

“No, of course not. They’re for the residents.”

“Look, I understand. You’re a growing boy.”

“I’m not a boy.”

She eyed him as though he was still wealthy, and that maybe he would be interested in an older woman like her. She was sort of sexy—in a cafeteria-lady-with-a-hairnet kind of way.

She handed him the empty tray. “Before you go—you wanna taste one of my cherry tarts?”

He wasn’t absolutely sure she was talking about food, but he was still starving. “Sure. Why not.”

She went to get one and brought it back to him, smiling. “Hope you like it.”

He set down the tray and took the tart.

“Be careful—it might be hot.”

He took a bite. “Good.”

She smiled.

He stuffed the rest of it in his mouth and mumbled, “Very good.”

Her smile broadened. “Thanks.”

Navy began to choke.

“I’ll get you some water.” She ran to the sink.

His throat continued to tighten.

The cook returned with a glass of water, but Navy was gone.

He ran to his car and opened the passenger door. Then he popped the glove box.

It felt like there was a golf ball stuck in his throat.

Navy fumbled through the contents of the glove box. He yanked out the owner’s manual and flung it on the floorboard. Then a Dallas map, a pile of receipts and other paperwork. Finally the glove box was empty. Where is it?

Navy gasped for air. He would run back inside. They had nurses. They could help him.

He stood up and staggered toward the building. The cook ran out to help him. Everything began to swirl.

He passed out just before his face hit the pavement.